The Archangel chased that damned Serpent through space, through dust, through the blazing heart of stars. She left a trail of Tempest-lightning in her wake, crackling like a scar across the sky, and still caught only the flickering glimpses of Jörmungandr’s smoldering tail.

One step behind, she saw the planet when she hit it.

For the people on the ground, the sky suddenly burst into warring opposites: blinding radiance for a Halo of War and azure-wreathed mists for the Tempest of Storms.

Alisandra crashed into the top of a ziggurat, the taste of ancient stones filling her mouth, and shoved free fast enough to send rubble arcing towards the horizon.

“This looks like fun?” whispered the Serpent for her ears only. “Don’t mind the mess. I landed on a eunuch.”

She shook away the dust and caught a maddening glimpse of the Serpent fading away, his form tucked into mortal seeming among a crowd.

Leaving Alisandra alone, atop the ziggurat, staring down the blood-stained steps.

The angel observed the salient items: a blood-stained altar, two priests holding a slave over the stone with daggers ready, four lines of brutalized slaves arrayed straight down a sand promenade, the smell of burning flesh, charred human meat still burning in braziers…

A mural of the sun rested beneath her feet, broken by impact, which presumably justified the slaughter.

“Aure by another name,” she whispered to herself.

“No angels here, dear sister,” the Serpent replied from afar. “Not even a whiff of ancient power.”

Just good old-fashioned human sacrifice

The two priests glanced between each, unsure, and then to a higher authority: an older priest with golden bracers and necklace. Their elder drew in a shocked breath, the same hiss seen in House Ladies when the help brought the wrong flavor of wine.

“What has this man done to deserve death?” Alisandra interrupted, still scanning the crowd for the Wyrm. The Hand of God ached in her hand, hungry for the thrill of battle – not this meager chase.

“The Blessed Children of the Glorious Sun do not answer to profane interlopers!” declared the elder priest, casting his arms wide.

His hands encompassed the lines of slaves like the wings of a hawk.

“For the God of the Dawn demands–”

“Then let him rise and demand it!” the Tempest snapped. Edged in frost, her voice rang in every direction. “What use is this slaughter, children of the Dawn? Name your god and let him defend it!”

Unseen, the Wyrm noted, “Nice slave pit. Trained guards, oiled shackles, good crowd control. Always nice to see humanity apply itself.”

The elder priest flung his arms over his face as the wave of hoarfrost blanketed the temple. Staggering backwards, he squealed, “The gods receive their share of every conquest!”

Alisandra stabbed her Blade high, letting its blinding edge flare brighter than the day. “And what use have the gods for your flesh?!”

“Oh, you’d be surprised,” Jörmungandr hummed.

“And what use have I for your secrets, Wyrm?” she hissed.

“Even the Tyrant never pried my lips,” he replied, smug as a cat.

The elder priest began to chant, praying to the sun, but his words lacked the Will of even a meager mage.

Even the fragments of the first tongue forgotten, she realized. No angelic gravity here to interfere with Occult’s work.

The slaves below grew agitated at this display, and their guards hurried to reinforce the lines.

As the tumult grew, she tuned her ear to the whisper of scales, and she heard one among the many shout, “You! What are you doing?!”

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

Lunging, Alisandra crossed the bloody square and rammed her Blade into Jörmungandr outstretched arm a beat before he could tear out the guard’s throat.

“I decide who lives and who dies here!” she hissed.

“And if my right hand offend thee,” smirked the Wyrm.

With a twist of her hip, she sheared free the arm.

Easily surrendered, mere seeming.

Barely worth the notice. Barely even real – like so much else with the Wyrm fixed in her crosshairs.

“If you desire judgement…” purred the Wyrm, tapping his remaining hand on his lip. He glanced into the slave pits, bustling with cowering women and children organized for the day’s sacrifice. “Fair enough. Let us liberate them, Ali. You take the left; I’ll take the right. Let’s butcher their bourgeoisie and grant them freedom!”

“For you to burn the world on the way out? I know your definitions!”

Tumult swelled into panic. Sacrifices and sacrificers sensed the dark waters swirling beneath their feet.

Their known order at play between gods.

Screams, shouts, and prayers erupted from every quarter.

Someone shot an arrow into the Wyrm’s back. He pulled it out and flipped it like a pen. “Then let us define freedom as life today. Such is our prerogative, after all.”

Growling, Alisandra struck; they flashed like lightning across the sky. A quick tour of this horrible country to count the blood-stained temples.

The Wyrm took his time, letting her soak in the sights.

She caught him several times, her Blade biting into things he could spare.

Useless to bleed him of Light! she cursed. There’s always more.

Just like her.

Then they crashed back into the temple where they started.

Crouching on the other side of the broken sun mural, the Wyrm smiled. “Shall I sweeten the pot, then? I’ll do all the grunt work, hunt down the guys with the whips, spread the word, all that. Won’t you rid me of this nattering priest?”

Who was currently mid-prayer, his face stained with sweat.

Sacrificial culture and rampaging gods. He’ll be next on the pyre if he doesn’t deal with us, she reasoned.

The Wyrm laughed. “One man, his hands stained to the wrist, his life already forfeit…freedom for all the rest…and then we’ll knock off for a coffee, and I will tell you everything. All the secrets the Hound could never see; the two names the Tyrant hunted in vain. And when I’m done? I will fuck right off to the furthest corner of the universe, a hundred million light years from a single soul, and sit on my tail for a thousand years.”

He grinned.

“A people – liberated. The greatest mysteries of the universe – yours. A thousand years of peace – because of you. For one priest.”

Reaching his climax, the priest brandished a golden emblem of the sun.

Alisandra felt a tickle.

“The word you’re looking for is ‘shemesh’, by the way,” the Wyrm called to the priest. “Not that you’d remember…”

“You have twisted your every word to your purposes in our every encounter so far,” Alisandra replied to his offer.

“Have I lied to you yet, Ali? Why would I need to lie? Oh, when you realize just how trite this entire farce is…”

Why, you may realize just how reasonable my position really is

And that scares you, doesn’t it?

“You offer too much for too little!”

“On that we agree,” he chuckled. “Think of it this way. At least when I’m done, they’ll worship a real god.”

Memories of the Stormmother’s temple flooded to the forefront of her mind: all that bowing, all that scraping, all the ridiculous outfits she wore as she tiptoed to their mold …

All that useless fear and still they sold dancing girls to buy air conditioners.

Are you in charge or not, Azure Tempest?

You know what they say, don’t you?

Nobody pays attention until it is their life on the line…

“I have no need for more groveling!” she snapped.

“Then why did you accept the Tempest?” wondered the Wyrm.

By now the head priest had realized his spell was useless.

So had his assistants.

They tackled him and started dragging him towards the altar.

“Oh. Is this part of that whole Mommy Issue thing?” Jörmungandr chuckled, stepping back to let them pass. “I’m starting to think that angelic upbringing may have had a negative effect on your socialization…”

Ignoring him, Alisandra flicked the Hand of God. Altar and temple both crackled down the middle.

The blow rattled down the stairs and into the crowd of slaves; cracked their bonds and shattered the spears of their keepers.

“Not a fan of sharing the heroics, are you?” The Serpent shrugged. “You know, I asked Daddy dearest about you in our brief time together. Asked Sergeant Asher why he let you carry the Hand of God but breathed barely a word of Eden…”

One eye on the melee and one on the Wyrm, the Archangel twitched.

“It wasn’t the Foundation Occult that stayed his hand – not with the size of that library of yours! Nor was it fear for your safety, else he would have spilled all once you Bloomed. No, we need to look for an explanation closer to home…

“Our dear Sergeant Asher wanted his daughter to look up to him a little longer.”

He knew

When you came to understand

That you would never call him ‘Daddy’ the same way again

And he fled

To lay dead and undying

Rather than face that truth

Alisandra flexed her jaw.

Why am I humoring this bastard?

“I am tired of your game,” she declared.

“We have yet to reach the end,” he objected.

Why am I humoring my prey?

“I do not care.” Her voice cold as the black sea and the sky filling with black clouds.

The Wyrm grinned. “Is that so? How very un-Ruly of you.”

“I think I have a new game.” She leveled her Blade at his face. “Let us see if we can still that rancorous tongue of yours.”

Jörmungandr exploded from mortal flesh, coiling around her from all sides. His thick head leering, he purred, “Well, then. Archangel.”

Don’t let me hold you back